


Next Time

by TaleWorthTelling



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 22:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10773645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaleWorthTelling/pseuds/TaleWorthTelling
Summary: Sam gets sex pollened. Steve offers to take care of him.





	Next Time

**Author's Note:**

> All acts are consensual and Sam is pretty with it and in control of himself considering the nature of the genre, but as is inherent with any sex pollen fic, please remember that it's an unusual situation.

 

It’s not until the decontamination shower that Sam really takes stock of himself and realizes that he hasn’t been this horny since he was sixteen. It’s like an itch you’ve already rubbed so hard it’s morphed into an ache and keeps itching, lighting him up and making him restless. He’s hot, skin damp with perspiration, and he keeps having to swallow, mouth wet probably for the same reason his eyes keep tearing up at the corners. His system’s trying to flush something out. This’ll pass, but in the meantime he has to face the unfortunate prospect of describing these symptoms to the med team. It’s not like he can hide it, and, even if he could, for all he knows, the next symptom is death. So he should probably get that checked out.

God damn it.

Five hours later, after every test the doctors can think of, he’s shoved into a quarantine chamber with strict orders to drink all of the water they give him and rest. No one’s allowed in, obviously, until Cap somehow finagles his way past the nervously hovering doctors and Sam finds himself looking up, panting, at the concerned face of the man who’d gotten his ass sprayed with nasty chemical shit in the first place. Well, that isn’t exactly fair. Steve hadn’t sprayed him. But he’s still the reason Sam’s in the game (except for that part where Sam had jumped at the chance to follow Captain America, which he normally chooses to ignore).

“How’d you get in?” Sam doesn’t even care that much. Short answer is Cap always ends up where he thinks he needs to be. He finds a way. But Sam’s a little preoccupied. He’s hunched over his lap, elbows digging so deep into his thighs to support him that he’s pretty sure there’ll be bruises tomorrow ( _there will be a tomorrow damn it)_ , and it’s taking everything he’s got not to roll over and hump the cot. He wasn’t planning to do it in front of the squirrelly doctor and scientists types measuring every vital sign he’s putting out – although he was beginning to wonder at what point he was going to give himself the option – but he’s damn sure not going to do it in front of Cap. No way. He drags out energy reserves he didn’t know he even had left. (Amazing what you can accomplish when the alternative is the prospect of humiliating yourself in front of Captain America.) He can’t do much about his pounding, shaky heartbeat, or the bulge in his shorts, or the fact that they’ve got him sitting here in his underwear, but he can damn sure look Steve in the eye and _not_ touch himself. That one he can do.

For a minute.

Damn it, it has never, in his life, been _so fucking hard_ to just focus. He thinks back to the first time he’d had a drink, the first time he’d really gotten drunk, the one and only time he’d smoked a joint, and even combined he’s not sure any of those experiences rival this one.

“I convinced them,” is all he says, smooth as ever, crouching down in front of Sam in a way that looks graceful all the time, but jarringly so while Sam’s practically vibrating out of his skin.

Have his pants always accentuated his thighs quite so much?

Sam shakes his head, but that barely clears it. He drops back in when Steve slowly brings his hands toward Sam, telegraphing his movements very carefully, waiting for Sam to give some signal not to touch him.

Sam doesn’t know whether he’ll throw him off or beg that Steve never stop touching him. One touch, just a hand on his leg, and he thinks he’ll either explode or sink into a puddle on the floor. He’s never felt arousal like this before. It’s not pleasant. It’s not easy. It hurts, and it’s weird, and it almost feels like whatever he does with it will have very little to do with him. The vent over his head is forcing filtered air into his cage, and he shivers with it, but not just because of the breeze. It’s like every nerve in his body is wired to his dick, and it’s _bizarre_ , and overwhelming, and he thinks he can count the threads in the stiff med bay blanket below him, thinks he can feel them digging into him and can’t decide if it’s good or not, only that it’s simultaneously too much and leaving him harder for it.

“S’this what you feel like all the time, man?” he asks.

Steve has intimated, very implicitly and casually, that his senses are turned up a little higher than the average person’s, wired a little different, _processed_ a little differently. Sam hadn’t really understood what he’d meant. He’d thought maybe he just overheard a lot of awkward conversations he didn’t want to know about, smelled his share and a half of BO, but now …

Fuck. This is crazy.

“Depends,” Steve concedes lightly. His fingertips finally touch down on Sam’s leg, and it jolts up his spine, up into his throat, down into his groin. His toes tingle and curl with it.

His expression doesn’t change despite the contractions in Sam’s muscles, despite what has to be the ridiculous face he must be making, despite the moan his stifles. The man’s a rock. “What do you feel?”

“ _Everything_ ,” he exhales, a beat before he realizes that Steve is _touching_ him and he’s probably going to get whatever this is. “Jesus fuck, Steve, look what you’re doing!”

As if sensing his thoughts, Steve shakes his head, drawing in even closer. He’s staring straight at Sam. “I’ve seen this before. It’s not contagious.”

“The hell it isn’t. You see this box they got me in?”

“They’re just being cautious. I know this, though.”

“Don’t tell me,” Sam says, laughing shaky and skittish. “’Saw it in the war.’”

“Got it in one.”

“Then how come they don’t know what it is?”

“’Cause we didn’t put it in the report.”

Sam stares at him now. “And why the hell not.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “The same reason you’re practically crossing your legs.” He shifts a little in his stance, planting his other hand on the cot next to Sam. “Listen, now that I’m in here, you’re stuck with me. They’re not going to let me out. So we can bust out the deck of cards in my pocket, or you can tell me right now, while you’re with it, if you want me to help you. If you say no, I’ll hold your hand until this is over. Speaking from experience, though, it’ll end a lot faster if you … take care of it.”

Sam’s jaw is already dropped from the force of his panting, but if he could drop it again, he would. “And what’ll you hold for me if I say yes?”

“Whatever you need me to.”

Sam keeps staring for what feels like ages. Steve Rogers is offering to lend him a hand to save him from some crazy ass weaponized aphrodisiac. This is really happening.

He wants to argue, wants to find some sort of counterproposal, wants to feel like he’s really considered his options before agreeing to medically fuck his close friend, but instead he manages a quick, “Yeah, ‘cause you stopped for condoms and lube on your way in” before he changes his mind and moves Steve’s hand from his thigh to his aching dick.

He hisses with it, but Steve doesn’t exert any more pressure than the weight of his hand where Sam leaves it.

“Actually,” Steve starts, and Sam shuts his eyes against the wave of sensation that hits him at that implication.

“Fuck, Steve. Really?”

He flops backward on the cot and throws his arm over his eyes, trying to block out the harsh lighting. Steve moves with him, staying on the floor but leaning in.

“I can be dressed or not dressed,” Steve says matter-of-factly. “It’s up to you.”

It’s not even really a choice. He reaches out with his other hand, feeling around until he finds Steve’s belt buckle, and pulls at it enough for Steve to get the idea. Steve very gently pushes his hand away, his touch careful but unnervingly electric all the same, making Sam shudder, and the tinkling sound when he undoes it has Sam’s back arching. It’s so loud in the quiet room, but then it’s not quiet, is it? He can hear the whoosh of the vent, the buzz of the lights, the hum of the equipment … He can’t hear the doctors, but he imagines he can, imagines their faces when they realize what Steve intends to do. He can’t see them, but they must be watching him. They’re _seeing_ this.

Steve gets his pants open without pulling his hand away from Sam, but when he stands, silent but for the jangle of the buckle flapping loose, he takes it back. Sam wants to watch him undress. He’s seen him strip down plenty of times, seen him in various states of undress, seen him _naked_ , for God’s sake. Seen him naked and _wet_ , and never batted an eye or lingered too much, and now here he is not even sure he can look. Maybe it’s the drug, but maybe it’s the context: all those other times, Steve had been doing whatever he was doing, but here, before him now, is Steve naked with all of his attention focused on Sam. With _intent_. He’s undressing at Sam’s request, purposefully and with Sam in mind.

The slap of his clothes against the floor pushes Sam to finally open his eyes and move his arm. He doesn’t even know what he wants to see, but when he looks, Steve’s not hard. On the one hand, he’s a little disappointed. He doesn’t want this to be clinical, doesn’t want to feel like Steve wants to be somewhere else. On the other hand, Steve isn’t really the type to get off on the suffering of his friends, isn’t the type to turn a desperate situation to his advantage and enjoy it, and however much he doesn’t want this to feel clinical, it can’t really be sex the way he thinks of it.

So however it happens, it’ll happen.

_God, please let it happen now_.

“What do you want me to do?” Steve murmurs, husky and low, soft and comforting.

“I want … I … fuck, just take care of it.” That doesn’t come out like he wants it to.

Steve squeezes his hand quickly. “Okay, Sam. It’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you.”

He pushes Sam’s knees up enough so he can slide under them, straddling the tiny cot with his feet on the floor. Sam’s legs rest over Steve’s thighs, spread wide around him. Steve rubs his hips, massages his quads, soothes down to his knees, and then works back up again to start over.

Sam settles into it, shoulders sinking back, and despite the direction the input takes, it barely registers as sexual. For a while, Steve watches is hands, and Sam watches Steve’s face, until his hips twitch and Steve reaches higher and Sam has to bury his face in both arms.

Steve rubs the crease where his thigh meets his hips. He hums. “Just so you know, you don’t have to touch me, but if you want to, you can. I don’t mind either way.”

Sam doesn’t have a response for that. He tilts his pelvis up higher, shivers at the feel of the tip of his cock slipping out of the waistband and leaving a slimy trail below his navel, and tries not to whine.

“On or off?” Steve asks, skating his fingertips back and forth across the hems.

Fuck it, man. Everyone can pretty much see everything anyway, or they’ve at least had the decency to turn around. “Off.”

Steve pushes his legs up with one hand and slips off his shorts with the other, then puts his legs back down, this time pulling them even higher over his lap.

Steve reaches behind himself for a moment, a movement Sam barely registers until he hears a tiny _pop_ and looks up to find Steve opening a sachet of lubricant that looks ludicrously tiny in his huge hands.

He keeps up the massage with one hand, reassuring and constant, and with the other manages to maneuver the packet to pour lube into his palm. It’s impressively dexterous, and when he finally wraps his fingers around Sam, the lube is body temperature. Sam hisses with relief.

“Is this good?” Steve asks after a few moments, voice low and soft, unlike his grip, which is firm and effective.

It’s not enough – Sam can already tell – but it is damn good, and in lieu of taking things slow, it feels as right as anything. There’s nothing really sexy about this when he thinks about it, really takes it in, but when he silences that voice and shoves it to the back of his mind, loses himself to the sensations, it’s heady and intense.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, swallowing hard. He lets his head fall back and closes his eyes.

When Steve’s hand slips a little lower to cup and knead, he squeezes his knees around Steve’s sides. When his other hand slides up to rub circles low on his belly, firm and soothing, he has the sudden urge to kiss Steve.

Can he kiss him? Is that on the table?

Steve must notice his new tension. The hand on his belly smoothly glides up to rub at a nipple. “Relax. Don’t think too much about it.”

So he doesn’t think. He pushes himself up, eyes still closed, and tilts his face toward Steve’s. There’s a slight pause in his ministrations, a startled hesitation in the way he adjusts himself slightly to lean down and press his lips to Sam’s waiting mouth. Once he’s there, though, he’s very committed, kissing thorough and deep before moving to press more kisses into the hollow of Sam’s throat. This new position presses Sam’s dick hard into Steve’s belly, and Steve’s is finally beginning to take an interest from where it rests under Sam’s ass. Sam tries to move down into it, but Steve keeps him still, shaking his head.

“This is about you,” he says.

He feels almost dopey when he asks, “Thought you said I could touch you?”

“You can,” he soothes, stilling his hand. “But you don’t have to do anything for me.”

“What if I want you?”

His smile is warm and soft, just a tilt of his lips. “Then you’ll want me later.”

Sam answers that by dropping back into the cot and pulling Steve with him. Steve is careful to catch himself and not land with his full weight on Sam, but he can feel some of it all the same, boxed in by hard muscle and heat. He puts his arms around Steve so they’re chest-to-chest, burying his face in Steve’s neck.

He’s knows what he really wants, but he’s unsure of asking. He wouldn’t normally spring it on someone. “Could I…” He exhales. “You have condoms, right?” He’s impressed with how lucid he’s managing to be.

“I do.” Steve has pushed himself over slightly so his lower body is more against Sam’s side than on top of him, the breadth of his chest still weighing Sam down. His hand hasn’t stopped moving around him.

“Would it be okay … Can I fuck you?”

He’s not sure what he’s expecting, nervous once it’s out there for reasons he can’t really place, but Steve nods immediately, careful not to jostle Sam’s where it’s against him.

It’s all a blur from there, really, just the shape of things imprinted in Sam’s mind when he remembers it later, too much to process fully: Steve pulling away, putting his hand on Sam’s chest when he’d moved to get up, stretching to get a condom from his pocket, and somewhere between then and when he’d settled on his knees over Sam, he’d kissed Sam again with his hand snaked down in what Sam later realized was a purely perfunctory effort. _Next time_ , he thinks. _Next time, I’ll do it right, open you up slow._

He thinks his brain whites out when he orgasms. He may have cried a little. After, Steve holds him, pressing him tight to his side with his long arm around Sam’s shoulders.

Sam sniffs a few times, clears his throat. “What the fuck was that, even?” he finally asks. It must be obvious that he’s not really looking for an answer, isn’t even really sure he’d want to know if there was one at this point.

Steve starts to talk, low and calm, about nothing and everything, observations he’d had on the way over, what he’s thinking of getting for dinner. Sam is grateful, if a little abashed at how painfully obvious it is how much he needs to hear Steve’s voice, hear him be normal. The silence was making him vibrate.

“Not the most auspicious start to a relationship,” Sam finally drawls, getting sleepy. As soon as he’d come, the effects of the drug had started to ebb dramatically, and the full force of the stress he’d been under -- the physical stress and the wondering what the hell was happening to him kind -- crashed into him in waves of exhaustion that he's kept at bay.

Steve squeezes his shoulder. “It’s not really a start, Sam. It’s just another layer. If that’s what you want.” He twists his wrist to stroke the backs of his knuckles down Sam’s arm. “You okay, though?”

He turns to look up at Steve, one his closest friends who’d just ridden the life nearly out of him to help him out. “I’m okay. Thank you.”

Steve shakes his head. “Anytime,” he says, voice dry.

Sam laughs. He still can’t believe the day he’s had, but when he thinks about this … “Let me take a nap, and I’ll see what I can do to return the favor.”

“Only if you want to.” Steve’s face is serious, but Sam is incredulous.

“Steve,” he starts. “Steve, seriously. I promise, I would not have fucked just anyone who came in here. I would love to handle your business. Just give me some juice and a cookie first, and I’ll show you _my_ tricks. We'll do this right.”

Steve laughs, a little rusty but robust. “Glad to.”

“You hear that?” Sam addresses the ceiling. “I’ve placed my order. I expect room service and a mint for my pillow when I wake up. Hope you got some good stuff for your data.”

Steve snags a bottle of water from the floor and presses it into Sam’s hand, curling his fingers around it. The condensation feels sticky against his already clammy palm.

He drains half the bottle in one go before he asks the question that’s been lingering on his mind since Steve walked in. “Man, if your senses are already turned-up, how did that stuff not kill you?”

Steve opens his mouth, squints, closes it, and then opens it again, settling on an answer. “Super-soldiers don’t get carpal tunnel.”

“Do they chafe?”

Steve groans. “Oh, god, yeah.”

They laugh quietly together before Sam falls asleep. When he wakes up, he’s still pressed against Steve. He stares at him for a few seconds before he rolls over and drapes himself across Steve’s chest. “You know, I am way too sore to make good on that offer right now. I’ll just have to sweep you off your feet tomorrow. How ‘bout those cards?”

Steve kisses him. “I thought you’d never ask.”

 


End file.
